


Anam Cara: Home

by ItsMe_Basil



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bottom Chris Argent, Bottom Peter Hale, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Cabin Fic, Depression, Double Anal Penetration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Turmoil, Good Chris Argent, Good Peter Hale, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Lumberjacks, M/M, Minor Eating Disorder, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Polyamory, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Reading Makes it Better, Rough Sex, Sane Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Stilinski Has an Oral Fixation, Stiles Stilinski Runs Away, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Chris Argent, Top Peter Hale, Top Stiles Stilinski, Walks In The Woods, everyone is sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29735040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsMe_Basil/pseuds/ItsMe_Basil
Summary: "The way you look at things is the most powerful force in shaping your life. In a vital sense, perception is reality." -John O'DonohueStiles moved to nowhere, Oregon not long after the Nogitsune. Its hard to walk the streets he used to terrorize. Its hard to talk to Scott or his dad when they look at him so broken.Because he is. So he leaves. He finds a small cabin in the woods, starts a garden, and even has a couple chickens. It doesn't help. He still struggles, he's still not eating, not sleeping. Still has purple bags under his eyes.But then Peter Hale and Chris Argent show up, and they don't leave. It happens slowly, he thinks. But fast. He's found his Anam Cara in Peter and Chris, and in turn, they've found their Anam Cara in him.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Chris Argent/Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 64
Kudos: 310





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anam Cara is a phrase that refers to the Celtic concept of the 'soul friend' in religion and spirituality. The phrase is an anglicization of the Irish word anamchara, anam meaning 'soul' and cara meaning 'friend'. (Taken directly from Wikipedia)
> 
> Copyright:  
> Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom (c) John O'Donohue

_"Your soul knows the geography of your destiny. Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more important it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey."_  
-John O'Donohue 

  
Stiles finds peace in the storm. When it rains, Stiles finds himself starfished in the grass behind his cabin, eyes closed. The rain is hard, heavy, cold. It beats down on him, soaks through his clothes. 

Stiles shivers, but he doesn't move. Even when his fingers and arms feel frozen, when he can't feel his toes. He thinks he can feel the rain deep in his bones. The sound of the rain hitting the tin roof to his right, splatting against the ground by his ears. 

He can hear the annoyed clucking of chickens to his left, and knows without opening his eyes, that the small chicken coop is right next to the garden. 

The flash of lightning makes the darkness behind his eyelids turn pink, and Stiles takes a moment to count. 

"One, two, three, four, five..."

Thunder rolls over the sky the way a wave crashes into the shore -rolling, gaining strength, piquing, crashing down onto the sand, falling back. 

Five divided by five is one, Stiles' mind supplies him. One mile out. Stiles' body sags into the grass, and he feels as if the soft dirt could open up, surround him and pull him down. It doesn't. 

The sun is gone when Stiles blinks his eyes open. He squints to keep the rain from his eyes. Its late evening. 

It takes everything in Stiles to lift his head, to allow his shoulders to follow, to roll into a seated position. He doesn't mind the cold. He's always cold. 

Stiles pulls himself to his feet, he runs a hand through his hair, pushes it out of his face, and uses the same hand to wipe the water from his face. Its futile, the rain doesn't let up. 

Stiles takes his time walking to the cabin. The screen door hinges squeak and grind, just barely heard over the heavy downpour and thunder. 

He lets himself in, throws the little hook Stiles screwed into the door into the loop in the frame. It keeps the wind from catching the screen door and slamming it against the side of the cabin. 

The only light Stiles has in this place is fire. He lights a candle, being careful not to drip onto the wick. 

He stands in the corner of the open space that serves as a kitchen, and strips out of his soaking clothes. Theres a clothes rack by the fireplace, and Stiles makes his way over to hang them. 

He uses the candle to see, puts logs into the fireplace and adds a small firestarter -a toilet paper roll stuffed with wood shavings and wax. It takes Stiles a while to light it, his hands are wet and he's shaking. 

He gets it, and Stiles stays, squatted naked in front of the fireplace, watching the small flame dance across the cardboard tube, steadily growing as the wax melts. 

Once the fire starts to burn the closest log, Stiles grabs the candle from the floor by his feet and makes his way across the room, bare feet sticking to the hardwood floor and leaving a trail of wet in his wake. 

He sets the candle down on the dresser. The cabin is one big room. Two doors, four windows. The back half has the kitchen and a small bathroom. The bathroom is the only room with walls and a door. 

Across from the kitchen, towards the front of the cabin is the fireplace with an old couch and a chair. Across from the bathroom, at the front of the cabin, is the bed. 

Its a big bed for one. The last owners fit four people in it, during their hunting trips. Stiles bought the cabin at a steal. 

He didnt change anything. The antlers still hang from the walls, the blanket is still itchy and smells like smoke. 

The dresser is the same, with the last drawer hanging off the tracks. Its a pain in the ass to pull open, so Stiles puts his spare blankets there. 

The first drawer has his underwear and socks, and his pajamas. The second drawer has pants and shirts. The third drawer is empty. Stiles didnt bring much with him when he left. 

He pulls out a long sleeved shirt and stripped pants from the top drawer. He doesn't put on any underwear or socks. 

The clothes stick to his damp skin, but Stiles doesn't care. He doesn't care that his hair is still dripping wet. He makes his way back to the fireplace and sits on the hard floor in front of it. 

The fire warms his hands and feet. It puts Stiles in a torpid state of sleepiness. He stays there until his ass becomes numb and the fire begins to dwindle. 

Stiles can put more logs on the fire to keep it going for the rest of the night, but instead, he lets the dying embers be, and he gets to his feet. The bed is big. Its lonely. Stiles slides into the blankets, pulls it to his chin and faces the glow of the fire. 

He falls asleep before the fire completely dies. When he wakes up, its late morning. Today, Stiles has to go into town. He loves and hates going to town. 

It takes him a long time to get out of bed. It takes him even longer to muster up the motivation to change into jeans and a hoodie. 

By then its noon. Stiles doesn't bother to eat before he steps out of the cabin with four reusable grocery bags folded under his arm. The air is thick with humidity. The earth is still wet and soft under his shoes. 

The walk to the edge of the driveway takes thirty minutes. It takes another ten minutes from there to get to town. Stiles flips his hood up to cover his face as he walks through town towards the used book store. 

Its not that he's worried anyone will recognize him -he's in the middle of nowhere, Oregon. Its just that he hasn't recovered physically from the Nogitsune. His skin is still pale, the bags under his eyes are still an unhealthy red-purple color. His cheeks are still hollowed. He's still always cold. 

He steps into the bookstore and makes his way to the back. He picks three books. He doesn't bother reading the title or the description. He picks them because the covers have bent creases, the spines are broken, the pages are falling out. 

He pays the five dollars it costs for them, and then makes his way to the grocery store. Its not a chain. Its a family owned place, more like a farmers market. 

Stiles gets non-perishables, canned goods, boxed foods. He doesn't need eggs -he's got chickens- and he doesn't need fresh fruits or vegetables -canned works just as well. 

He gets some beef, noodles, rice, a bundle of potatoes and onions. Broth, milk, and cake mix. He doesn't look at it long, just long enough to find the yellow cake mix. He drops chocolate frosting into the cart as well before making his way to the check out. 

Next, he carries his groceries and books to the library. He sits in the back, facing a computer, and he logs onto his email. 

There are only three people who have Stiles' email address. Scott, his dad, and Derek Hale. 

He reads his dad's email first. Its a repeat of his previous ones. _How are you, where are you, when are you going to come home, I miss you._ Stiles hates reading them. He hates responding: _I'm the same, I can't tell you, I don't know, I miss you too._

He tells his dad about what he's read that week, asks about his diet, how he's coping with the supernatural. 

He hits send before he can type out something he'd just have to delete. Like confessing he still wakes up in cold sweats, screaming his head off. How sometimes, when it's really quiet, he can hear the spirit making him. How he can't settle until both the doors in the cabin are shut and locked tight. 

Scott's email gets a short response. _I'm alive. I'm okay, I hope you're doing alright. I'm sorry._

Derek doesn't email him often. When he does, its to check in, and Stiles usually responds with ' _not dead yet_ ' and Derek doesn't respond. He's been gone for three months. It doesn't feel like it. He wonders how long it'll take for him to get better. 

Stiles frowns down at the screen, seeing Derek's email is a lot longer than 'you _still breathing?_ ' 

Its still short and to the point though. It reads: _Peter has been asking about you. Expect a visit soon. Argent is with him._

Stiles responds with a simple _OK_ and logs out. He grabs his groceries and leaves. Derek Hale is the only one who knows where Stiles is. Stiles trusts him not to tell Scott or his dad. 

He doesn't know what to think about Chris and Peter knowing where he is. Doesnt know what to think about Peter asking about him, so he doesn't think. 

He walks back to his cabin. He puts his groceries away, and he adds the three books he bought to his slowly growing collection on the mantle over the fire place. 

Stiles' clothes from the night before are dry now, so Stiles folds them and puts them away. He washes his clothes in the stream out back, so he always smells like nature. Dirt and crisp water and smoke. 

He goes out to the chicken coop, drops in food scraps, takes the eggs back to the house and puts them in the sink to rinse off later. 

He grabs a book -he doesn't pay attention to the title- and steps out onto the front porch. Theres a bench swing out there. Stiles found it on the side of the road not long ago and somehow got it set up on his own. It took all day. 

He sits and rocks and reads. The clouds block the sun, keeps the air around him cold. Its not yet fall, but its going to be soon. Stiles will need to harvest his garden soon, start canning for the winter. 

He reads until he's hungry, and he eats the three left over bacon from the day before. He starts up a fire, and sits on the couch to continue reading. 

Reading keeps Stiles out of his head. And with no internet connection or reception, that's all Stiles really can do. But it's alright, its a nice change of pace. Hes not rushed. 


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles forgets all about Derek's email until four days later. Hes sitting in the bench swing, a copy of Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom by John O'Donohue in hand. 

He hears the crunch of gravel under tires, the soft hum of an engine, and he closes the book. Cars don't come up here. 

He sets the book to the side and stands to his feet. He reaches into the cabin, to the spot beside the door and grabs the rifle he keeps. He got it the day after he got the cabin. He makes his own wolfsbane rounds on the off chance the supernatural follow him here. 

The car pulls up, and the windows are all tinted. Its an SUV, and its black. Fear twists its way around Stiles' heart, and he cocks the rifle, stepping out onto the porch and aiming it at the SUV. 

He sets his jaw, the engine cuts out. Stiles puts his finger on the trigger, and the drivers side door swings open. 

Stiles grits his teeth. "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't shoot you," he called, seeing Chris Argent step out. 

He was wearing what Stiles could only call civilian clothes when Chris Argent wore them. Jeans and a grey tshirt. He had on a jean jacket. His beard was fuller than he'd last seen, hair longer and tousled. He looked older. Stiles felt a pang of guilt, knowing he was the reason for Chris' face having extra wrinkles. 

He killed his daughter. 

"I didn't shoot you," came Chris' reply, keeping his hands on the hood of the SUV. Leaning forward, glancing up at Stiles, who still hadn't lowered his rifle. 

"Peter in there too?"

Chris gave a small nod, and then the passenger door swings open, and out pops the werewolf. Stiles pulls the rifle from Chris and points it to Peter. 

"Derek did mention we were coming, I hope," Peter sighed, unaffected. Peter looked a lot scruffier than Stiles remembered. His hair was also tousled, longer on the top. His beard was fuller too, not cut in a goatee, but growing in on his cheeks and down his neck. 

"He mentioned," Stiles said. "Doesn't mean you're welcome here." 

"Come now, Stiles," Peter huffed, smirking up at him. "We drove all this way."

"Your problem, not mine," Stiles said. "I don't want visitors. Kinda the whole reason I bought this place."

"You bought it?" Peter asked, and he sounds -not really surprised, but he definitely didn't know. "You're only sixteen, and already you got your own place."

He sounds almost proud, and it takes Stiles aback. He blinks, frowning. 

"I'm eighteen now," he settles on.

"We stopped in Beacon Hills a week ago," Chris spoke up. "Just to check in on- on family." Stiles tried to keep the wince inward, but he couldnt help his body freezing and tensing at that. 

Chris had no family in Beacon Hills, and the only family Peter had was Derek, and they didn't consider each other family. 

"Noticed you weren't there," Peter chimed in, raising an eyebrow. "We were a bit surprised Scott and your dad had no idea where you were."

"Thats for a reason," Stiles grumbled, knowing Peter could hear him well enough. 

"We came to see how you are," Chris said. "Make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?" Peter asked, tilting his head. Stiles felt his throat close and he gritted his teeth. 

"Don't-" Stiles snapped. "Don't do that."

"Alright."

Stiles dropped the rifle, glaring at the two of them. "I don't need anyone checking in on me," he said. "You wasted your time."

"We were thinking of sticking around," Chris said evenly. 

"There's no hotels around here," Stiles supplied, dropping the rifle down to lean against the cabin. 

"So we've noticed."

"You're not staying here," Stiles scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"You're cute," Peter chuckled, stepping up the steps. Stiles blinked, stepped back and blocked the door. 

"I'm serious," Stiles said, glaring at Peter when the werewolf stopped two feet from him. He can see Chris leaning against the grill of the SUV but not coming much closer. "I don't need- I don't- Peter, stop."

At this point, Stiles has both hands on Peter's shoulder to keep him from coming in any further. He gives a shove and the werewolf takes a step back, raising an eyebrow. 

"I came out here to be alone," he said. "Please just leave me alone."

It takes everything in him to turn his back on Peter, pick up the rifle and step inside his cabin. He closes the door behind him, makes sure the lock slides loudly and then sits on the couch. 

He inwardly curses himself when he realizes he's left the book out on the porch, but he's not about to go out and grab it. So he picks up one from the end table, flips open to a random page and begins reading. He hopes Chris and Peter are gone, but he doesn't check.

*-*

Its late at night when Stiles wakes up with a shout, shooting upright in bed and panting. The cabin is pitch black, and Stiles stumbles his way across the open floor to the bathroom and throws up. 

Some nights he gets sick after nightmares, other nights he doesn't. 

Stiles brushes his teeth, uses mouth wash and checks the time on the little white clock that sits on the sink. Its barely one in the morning. 

Sighing, Stiles trudged his way back to the bed. Its too late to try and stay awake. He grabs the bottle of sleeping pills he keeps on the floor by the bed post and downs two dry before slipping under the covers. 

He falls asleep around two in the morning, and wakes up at nine to the sound of banging. 

Stiles scowls up at the roof. It sounded like someone was chopping wood, and it took a second for Stiles to realize why that wasn't right. 

He climbed out of bed and yanked the door open. His eyes landed on the black SUV, then moved to the wood cutting pile. 

Chris was swinging the axe down with an experienced precision, knees bending as the axe hits wood. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" Stiles demanded, voice rough with sleep, mind groggy from the pills. 

Chris raised his head as he put another log onto the stump. "Chopping wood," he responded easily. Even in the cold morning air, Chris is sweating. He's removed the jean jacket, showing off muscled arms that glisten in the morning sun. 

Stiles glowers. "Why?"

"You're out," Chris said. Stiles glanced over at the pile on the side of the porch. The pile was a little low, but Stiles had been wanting to do it himself. 

"Where's Peter?" Stiles asked instead, arms wrapping around his chest. Its cold. 

"Getting more wood."

"Of course he is," Stiles grunted. He gave Chris a scowl, taking a step back towards the house. "This isn't going to change anything. You're still not invited."

"Understood," Chris smirked, and swung the axe down. Stiles eyed his bare arms one last time, rolled his eyes up to the porch ceiling, and then spun around and went back inside. 

He slammed the door, making sure Chris knew how much he did not enjoy his company. He didnt usually eat breakfast, but he usually doesn't wake up this early, so he scrambles some eggs and toasts a slice of bread. 

He eats at the little square table pressed between the back door and the small fridge. He had solar panels running all the appliances -he says all, but really its just the fridge and water heater. The stove is gas, and he uses a pump and well for his water. 

Completely off grid. 

After breakfast, Stiles goes out the back door with his basket in hand. Its time to pull up the herbs to let dry. Next spring, Stiles decides he's going to try vegetables too. 

The sun is warming his skin, but the wind is still a little nippy. Stiles ignores the slight chill and plucks leaves and stalks from the bundles of plants he has. 

His knees are starting to twinge from the kneeling position he's been in when footsteps behind him catch his attention. 

Stiles doesn't turn around. "Why are you still here," he demands, sounding more resigned than he'd like to be. 

"Aren't you cold?" Comes Peter's voice. Stiles looked up over his shoulder, scowling up at the werewolf before returning his attention to the basil plant he was currently deleafing. 

"I'm always cold," he grumbled. He drops the leaves into the basket beside everything else and moves on to the sage. 

"Since the Nogitsune?" 

Stiles snapped the stalk of sage and dropped it into the basket with a little more force than necessary. 

"I don't want to talk about that," he gritted out. "The whole point about moving out here is to not talk about it-" he gets to his feet now and spins around to face Peter. "-I'm alone here for a reason. I don't need you or Chris here so why can't you both just fuck off already?"

He's shaking when he grabs his basket of herbs. He makes to leave, but Peter curls a hand around his upper arm, stopping him. 

"I didn't mean to make you upset," Peter said softly. Stiles keeps his head turned from Peter. He doesn't know if he'll cry or explode if he sees the look on Peter's face. 

"I- I don't want to-" Stiles takes a breath. "If you two are set on sticking your noses where they don't belong, the least you can do is leave me be."

He takes a step and Peter lets go of his arm. Stiles goes back inside, the screen door slamming against the frame before Stiles can lock it shut. 

He focuses on bundling thatches of herbs with twine, hanging them from his ceiling. He doesn't know what to do with the rest of his day. He usually sleeps in until noon, and his chores last until close to dinner. He reads, out on the porch, but he can't now. Not with Peter and Chris wandering his woods. 

The next day, there's a pile of eggs at the back door. Stiles scowls down at them, then looks up. No Peter. No Chris. 

"I can get my own fucking eggs!" He calls out. Theres no reply. Stiles picks the eggs up and goes back inside to rinse them off and put them in the fridge. 

He thinks Peter or Chris took his book. The one he left on the porch swing. It wasnt there when he came back. He doesn't demand for it back. He doesn't want to initiate conversation with either of them. 

It rains again that night. Stiles finds himself on his back, face pointed towards the sky. It rains a lot here, especially as fall rolls around. 

He stays like that for who knows how long, letting the cold water soak into his skin, cooling him down further, making him shiver. 

A flash of lightning catches him off guard. 

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten," he counts. "Eleven, twelve..."

Thunder. 

Twelve divided by five is two point four. Almost two and a half miles out. 

He hears the chickens clucking, can hear the squeaky hinges of the screen door as the wind catches, the thwap of the door hitting the siding, more squeaking. 

Lightning. 

"One, two, three, four..." he counts to thirteen this time before thunder crashes. 

"Stiles."

Stiles yelps, flails, opens his eyes and sits up to see Chris and Peter standing over him, both looking worried. 

"Fuck," he gasped out. "Why are you still here?"

"You're going to freeze out here," Peter said, not answering Stiles. 

Stiles glanced down at his soaking pajamas, how his skin pebbled with goosebumps. How he shivered. 

"I'm fine," he managed. 

"Why are you out here?" Chris asked, walking over. Stiles fell back into the grass, looking up at the dark sky. He doesn't say anything when Chris lays down beside him, leaving an inch or two of space. 

"I don't know," Stiles sighed, closing his eyes. He feels Peter lay down on his other side. "I-I feel better out here."

Neither men say anything. A flash of lightning. Stiles counts quietly. He counts to ten, then the thunder calls. 

"Two miles," he hummed. 

"You do that every time?" Peter asked. Stiles nodded, not opening his eyes. 

"Count the seconds between the lightning and thunder, divide by five, that's how many miles the storm is from you."

"Why are you out in the rain?" Peter asked. Stiles sighed. 

"I told you. I feel better," he said. 

"Better how."

Stiles doesn't answer for a long time. He listens to the screen door slam against the cabin, the rain hitting the tin roof. 

"I'm always cold," he said up to the sky. "Inside, no matter what I do, it's like, the cold is in my bones. Even when the rest of me is warm."

Neither Chris or Peter speak, even when Stiles stays quiet for a long time. He sighs, drumming his fingers on his belly. 

"When the rest of me is cold, it feels normal," he settles on, but it comes woefully short. 

"Your lips are turning blue," Chris finally speaks up. Stiles can't help but crack a tiny smile. 

"And my skin is pale," he replies. "I have permanent bags under my eyes. I can't keep any meat on my bones." He sighs a little, closing his eyes again. "I already look and feel dead. Blue lips just ties the knot, doesn't it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a day early because you guys seemed to really like it! We got Peter and Chris being just as stubborn as Stiles is, I think they'll make a great team, don't you? 
> 
> This story is going to be really calm, really healing for the three of them because all three need it. So does Derek honestly but his healing is taking place elsewhere. 
> 
> Next update will be on Saturday unless I post early again. Check me out on [Tumblr](http://itsme-basil.tumblr.com)! My asks are open!


	3. Chapter 3

Chris and Peter are there in the morning. Stiles ignores them. Maybe they'll leave him alone if he doesn't acknowledge their presence.

He makes lunch, checks on the bundles of drying herbs, hears more wood being chopped. He can hear the muffled conversation between Chris and Peter in his front lawn.

He wonders when they'll get bored and just leave. He reads on the sofa, he goes out to collect eggs and finds them sitting in the grass by the back door. He sighs loudly, stares at them, finally picks them up and goes inside.

He reads some more, he makes dinner, he takes a shower and starts the fire for the evening. The temperature drops around midnight and Stiles wakes up shivering.

He climbs out of bed and walks through the dark to the fireplace. The embers are pulsing with a dim glow. Theres no more wood inside.

Stiles lets out another sigh and stands to his feet. Its too cold to sleep. He shoves his feet into a pair of boots and steps outside.

The moon is almost full, and it gives Stiles the barest amount of light to see by. He stomps down the stairs in a short sleeve shirt and thin sleep pants.

He sees the SUV and scowls at it. They're sleeping in his driveway. Stiles grabs an armful of wood, setting his jaw against the urge to walk over to the SUV.

He makes it to the front door before he sighs, looking up at the roof of the porch.

"You might as well come inside, if you're so set on staying," Stiles grunted, knowing Peter can hear him. He doesn't wait for the car doors to open. He goes inside and makes his way over to the fireplace.

He hears the muffled sounds of the car doors shutting, then the steps creaking. Stiles sets up the logs, shivering slightly. He puts a bit of tinder down, then grabs one of his toilet paper roll firestarters and lights it.

Peter and Chris flop down onto the couch behind him. Stiles ignores them, setting the burning firestarter into the tinder and moves from his squatted position to his ass, knees bent in front of him as he waits for the tinder to catch.

He watches the tinder catch, watches the fire grow and the warmth begin to spread. "I don't know why you guys are so intent to stay here," he said to the fire, his toes warming up. "Its not like we were friends before. In fact I'm pretty sure we hate each other."

"I never hated you," Chris sighed.

"Oh come on," Stiles snapped, climbing to his feet. "I-" he snapped his mouth shut, fisting his hands. He wouldn't say it. Not when everyone in the room knew what he did. Stiles shook his head and made his way to the front door. Neither man followed him out.

Stiles climbed into the SUV, curling up on the passenger seat, knees bent, arms folded into his chest and chin tucked. He just wanted them gone. He wanted Chris and Peter to go, and not come back and take all the memories and pain they brought up with them.

He stirs slightly to movement, but he's too tired to pull himself out of sleep. He's suddenly pressed into something warm. Stiles presses his cold nose into it.

When he wakes up, he's in bed. He can see Peter and Chris on the couch, one head on each arm rest, bodies pressed close together under a blanket, both asleep.

Stiles burrowed back into his pillow, wondering briefly who moved Stiles from the car to his bed, and when. It was early, so Stiles decided not to think, rolled over, and fell back to sleep.

The sound of rain pitter-patting on the tin roof wakes Stiles up some time later. The sun is still out. Stiles rubs at his eyes as he sits up. He didnt remember if he dreamed the night before, but he hadn't woken up if he had so it was probably mild.

"Here."

Stiles yelped, jumping in his seat before scowling up at Chris. "Don't do that."

Chris smirked. "Sorry," he said, not sounding at all sorry before holding the bowl out. Stiles grabbed it, looking down to see eggs and bacon, melted cheese sprinkled on top.

"You made me breakfast," he sighed, setting the bowl down on his lap.

"Think of it as an apology for picking at open wounds," Chris said softly. He didnt wait for Stiles to respond. He spun around and headed back to the kitchen. Peter was sitting at Stiles' little table -the one that barely had enough room for one person.

Stiles looked back down at his scrambled eggs and sighed. He wasn't hungry -usually never was- but he forced himself to eat. He ate it all, set the bowl on the ground and pulled the blanket over his head, dropping onto the pillow. Today was not going to be a good day.

* _-_ *

Peter got Stiles out of bed a couple hours later. "I don't want you here," was all Stiles managed before shutting himself in the bathroom.

When he got out after showering, Chris and Peter were still there, sitting on the couch. Peter had the book Stiles was reading the day they showed up.

"You know there is such a thing as outstaying your welcome," Stiles huffed, draping his towel over the clothes rack by the fireplace.

"I don't think you really want us to leave," came Chris' reply. Stiles glanced over at him.

"Why's that?"

"You have a rifle full of wolfsbane pepper bullets," Peter hummed, eyes on the page. "Haven't shot either of us yet."

"Yeah, well, Chris didn't shoot me," he griped, glaring at Chris before dropping into the couch between the two men. It would've been so much easier if Chris had just shot him when the Nogitsune had told him to.

So many people would still be alive.

"So I've heard," Peter hummed, glancing up at Stiles. He then turned to the first page of the book and took a deep breath.

" _Its strange to be here. The quiet mystery never leaves you alone. Behind your image, below your words, above your thoughts, the silence of another waits_ ," Peter reads.

His voice is surprisingly soft. Stiles notes he's got a good reading voice, not dull, not monotone. He reads the book like one would read poetry, with just the right pauses, just the right lilt.

Chris and Stiles stay quiet, listen to Peter read. Stiles forgot what it felt like to be read to. His mom used to read to him all the time. She read to him while he played on the floor, occasionally stopping to ask, "what was I reading?"

Stiles knew it was to see if he had been paying attention, and Stiles would respond with, "Jack and Annie are hiding in the ship."

Stiles' favorite books to listen to were the Magic Treehouse series. He had the whole collection.

Stiles leaned back into the couch, Peter's voice filling the room.

" _Humans are new here_ ," Peter read. " _Above us, the galaxies dance out towards infinity. Under our feet is ancient earth. We are beautifully moulded by this clay. Yet the smallest stone is millions of years older than us_."

Stiles listened and thought of the Nogitsune. He swallowed hard, tried to picture the galaxy Peter read about, the age of the earth. But his mind quickly turned to darker things.

" _You can kill the oni, but me? Me? I'm a thousand years old, you can't kill me!_ "

Stiles shuddered a little and sat up, interrupting Peter's reading. He stands to his feet and makes his way to the back door. He's gotta feed the chickens, collect the eggs. Not think. Don't think.

Stiles picks up the eggs, carries them back inside and takes them to the sink. He doesn't look at Peter or Chris.

How it got to Stiles avoiding people in his own damn cabin, he has no idea.

"Want to talk?" Chris asked. Stiles paused momentarily, but quickly righted himself, rinsing another egg.

"Nothing to talk about."

"Bottling things doesn't make them go away," Peter responded. Stiles stopped again, looking up at the ceiling and taking a breath.

"Its been working so far," he managed to say, turning his head to glare at the two men. "Until you two dinguses showed up."

Peter positively radiated at that, a smirk brightening his face. "I haven't been called a dingus in forever."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Get used to it," he muttered, setting a rinsed egg onto the kitchen towel on the counter.

"Does that mean you want us to stay?" Peter asked, smile turning to a smirk.

"No," Stiles huffed, drying the eggs off before opening the fridge and setting them inside. He made his way outside when he was finished, passing the couch and finding himself on the front porch, sitting on the swing and staring out into the woods.

He idly pushed the bench back and forth with his toes, the wood cool under his bare feet.

His peace and quiet lasted about an hour before the front door opened. Chris stepped out, shutting it behind him.

"Can I sit?" He asked.

"I don't know," Stiles huffed. "Can you?"

Chris raised an eyebrow but moved to sit beside him anyway, throwing off the rhythm of the swinging. It doesn't swing the same now, and Stiles spends the quiet between them focusing on how the swinging is just a touch faster, and not the way it had been before.

"You don't look like you're getting better."

Stiles leaned back against the back rest, sighing long and loud. "You two are persistent," he muttered.

"We care about you," Chris countered. Stiles rolled his eyes.

"Sure," Stiles mocked. "We both know that's not true. Not after all the fucked up shit I've done."

"No one blames you for what the Nogitsune did."

Stiles gritted his teeth. "You sure about that?"

Chris looked over at him with a look Stiles knows all too well. The sympathetic look. The look of pity. The 'I don't know how to respond' look. Stiles got real friendly with that look when his mom got sick.

"If you need forgiveness," Chris said softly, staring out at the woods beside Stiles. "Then, I forgive you."

Stiles felt his throat squeeze. He swallowed, blinked his eyes and looked down at his lap, wincing. Stiles didnt want forgiveness. Scott forgave him. His dad forgave him. Hell, everyone forgave him.

They told Stiles it wasnt his fault, that what happened wasn't him. Like that made everything okay. That it wiped the slate clean, when it didnt.

"I don't-" Stiles took a shuddering breath in, picking a hang nail at his thumb until it started bleeding. He winced again, blinked back the welling tears and clenched his jaw.

"I need you to hate me," he said. His voice sounded raw, fragile and full of more emotion than Stiles was willing to show. He dug his nail into the side of his thumb, where the skin was pulled and the red tissue exposed.

"Why?" Was all Chris asked, and his voice sounded tight too. Compartmentalized. Stiles wished he could compartmentalize as well as Chris could. He assumed it came from years of training as a hunter, and a military background.

Stiles didnt say anything for a long time. The lump in his throat and the unshed tears in his eyes warned of a full breakdown if he opened his mouth. So he stayed quiet for a moment, the swing was still, the birds chirped happily in the trees. The wind was cold, but not as cold as Stiles' bones felt.

"Because I hate me," he said at last, voice barely above a whisper.

Its quiet for a long time. Stiles calms himself down, the swing begins to rock back and forth again. Peter doesn't come out, but Stiles isn't naive enough to think he wasn't listening.

Fucking assholes.

"I did hate you," Chris spoke up, after maybe an hour had passed. Stiles' but was numb and he had developed the slightest tremble from the cold. Stiles glsnced over at him.

"After Oak Creek," he continued. Neither of them needed to go into details there. Stiles still wakes up to Lydia screaming for her, kneeling over him in the tunnels.

He hadn't seen it happen, but he'd seen Scott holding her, seen the blood pooling over her stomach. He'd seen the utter devastation on Chris' face.

"I don't hate you now," Chris continued. "I think it came from- from the, uh, the pain of losing her."

Stiles cursed inwardly as tears welled back up again, and he tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling of the porch.

Chris' hand fell lightly on Stiles' leg, and he finally looked over. Stiles didnt make eye contact. Chris' hand squeezed, and after a small breath, Stiles looked at him.

"I don't hate you," he repeated, and the intensity in his conviction, in the way he held Stiles' brown eyes hostage, made it difficult for Stiles to breathe.

"It wasn't your fault, and if my forgiveness helps you not hate yourself, then you have it."

Then, Chris gets up and heads back inside. Stiles stares after him, and after a moment, he begins rocking the swing with frozen toes.


End file.
